Glorious
by absolute power
Summary: Unofficial sequel to a kink meme fill, with permission from the author. England struggles to pick up the pieces after that long night when a misspoken spell changed his life forever.
1. Chapter 1

Hi! It's me again. This story's actually an unofficial sequel to a kink meme fill, which had England accidentally miscast a spell and end up fulfilling the deepest fantasies of the other nations in their dreams- but for England it was all real. :( It's a very lovely but sad fill, and all of you should go read it because it's so amazing! Pairings at the moment are undecided, except for one, which will remain the same all throughout the story. :D Hope you enjoy this, and please leave a review so I know how to improve! :D

Original request and fill: http :// hetalia-kink .livejournal .com/ 13943 .html ?thread= 3706866 3#t37068663

* * *

There was a meeting of the nations the day after, and there was a decidedly awkward air in the conference room. It wasn't only that it was being held in France, where they feared the host nation himself would be seen streaking through the streets as he was infamous for doing, but that the night before had been extremely... pleasant. Perhaps it was the air in France that was making them simultaneously tense and relaxed and sinfully satisfied.

One thing more was wrong with the setting, and it was that it was twenty minutes past when the meeting had been scheduled to start, and neither their host nor England had appeared.

Whispers were circulating around the conference room, as the nations attempted to figure out what was taking them so long. It was unheard of for England to be late, and the fact that he was missing with _France_ provoked a slew of frantic gossip, tempered only by the fact that they had all dreamt of Arthur Kirkland the night before- not that they mentioned it to each other. It was too embarrassing.

The door opened, and France sauntered in, but it was a little more subdued than usual, as if he was trying to make up for something. "_Bonjour_ everyone. Our friend Arthur," he seemed to stress the words, and several nations flushed a bright red. "Has informed me that he will be late, so please make yourselves comfortable. He should be here in another ten minutes."

The nations nodded, and they waited for England's appearance to assure them that nothing was wrong.

* * *

The pain shooting up his spine from his lower back _burned_, but England gritted his teeth and limped his way to the conference room. He had donned a long-sleeved turtleneck (black, to hide the blood) and dark jeans, despite the warmth of the day, to conceal the bandages and bruises. It had been humiliating to be treated like porcelain (like a doll, like a _plaything_) as France dabbed antiseptic on his back and wrapped bandages around him, but he had been able to shove the frog out of the room to handle the rest of the injuries by himself and twist his broken nose back into place.

He rested his hand on the door handle and breathed deeply, willing himself not to cry. He was the fucking _former British Empire_, for heaven's sake. He would not show weakness. He would not debase himself any longer.

_Lie still and think of the Empire._

No. Not lying still. Never again.

He opened the door and stepped inside, ignoring the hush that fell over the nations as he limped to his seat beside Japan and Spain. He was stiff as he sat down, lowering himself gingerly onto the seat, but not enough that he could be noticed, or so he hoped.

"Arthur-san, are you alright?" Japan's soft voice floated from beside him, and England suppressed a shudder.

_Filth and slime and otherworldly organisms, cold, so cold, inhuman, like Kiku watching him being bent into position, disgusting, disgusting disgusting-_

England choked a little and forced himself to look ahead and not think of Kiku with his strange desires or Antonio's love for swordplay and blood and pain. In front of him was Germany. Germany was safe, relatively safe, and England kept his eyes locked on Ludwig's face and tried not to break as he remembered whispering meaningless, untrue sweet nothings into his ear.

_You can do this._

_

* * *

_The meeting seemed to drag on for hours, but England was strangely quiet. He refused to look any of the other nations in the eye, but kept his gaze on the clock, only speaking up when it was his turn to present. He did so with none of the usual impassive, clinical detachment that he reserved for presentations, but with a venom that made even Russia pause and blink in confusion.

Break came not a moment too soon. England limped as fast as he could to the door after all the other nations had left, and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply to control his pounding heart. It was harder than he thought to pick up the pieces.

"Yo, jerk Arthur!"

_Sealand._ England snapped his eyes open and glared at the small boy in front of him, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet and smiling that irritating, obnoxious grin.

_Sealand is not a nation. Sealand wasn't there. Sealand is safe-_

"Oi, I'm talking to you! Acknowledge me! I'm a nation too!"

"No!" He burst out, startling even himself. "You are _not_ a nation, and you _never will be_ a nation, god damn it, just get it through your thick skull-!"

"Whoa, whoa, Arthur, slow down! You're terrifying the kid." A hand clamped down on his shoulder and he shrugged it away furiously. "Fuck, man, are you okay? You look like shit."

_Prussia. Prussia was there, he's not even a nation anymore._ "What the fuck are you even doing here?"

"Crashing the party, duh! You freaks could seriously use more awesome around here. But dude, what's with the bruised face?"

Gilbert was looking at him intently, uncharacteristic concern in his eyes, and England was reminded forcibly of the way he had waited for him to take off his ring and place it on the bedside table before Prussia slowly took off the silky white wedding dress that covered him from head to toe. He had been kind and gentle and slow, and England could remember the way Gilbert's eyes had been clouded with memories and a deep, pervading bliss as he had whispered praises and love and gratitude that he had married _him_ and not Austria...

He had been wanting someone else, and for that, England could tolerate him, if only a little.

"Jerk Arthur, I'm gonna go talk to Raivis because _he's_ gonna make me a nation!" Sealand's little chest puffed up proudly as he dared England to mock him, but England couldn't help but shudder at the memory of little Latvia threatening him with instrument after instrument of torture until he was trembling in terror before he threw him to the floor and rode him, hard.

God, was he going to fall apart with every mention of a person's name?

"Fine," he found himself saying coldly. "Be a country. See if you can deal with the responsibility and fucking _shame_. It's not all it's cracked up to be." He limped away as fast as he could manage, wincing as he felt the wounds in his back reopen and seep into the bandages. He hoped he could make it back to France's house before it showed on his shirt.

Prussia caught up with him easily, gripping his arm, and England cried out before he could stop himself.

"What the hell was that? Shit, man, you look really fucked up, and- h-holy _shit_, you're bleeding!"

England tried ineffectually to tug his arm away, but Prussia only gripped tighter and dragged him bodily to the exit. England was feeling too dizzy to protest.

"I've got a flat about a minute's walk from here. I'll take you there and we can see what the hell's wrong with you. I don't care if you bleed on the damn carpet; it's West's money anyway."

England never returned to the conference room.

* * *

"What happened?" America asked France urgently as he surveyed the England-less room.

"I don't know where he is," France replied uneasily, avoiding the question. He was distressed; having no idea how magic worked, he was only able to guess at what happened to England the night before, and none of the scenarios in his head were pretty images. He had a suspicion that was growing by the minute, and by now he was almost completely sure, but nothing confirmed it yet.

America rounded on him furiously. "What did you _do_ to him last night?" he said in a voice that the entire room could hear.

"Me? What-"

"I'm not stupid! _Both_ of you came in late. Then Arthur came in and he wouldn't talk and he had bruises on his face and he was fucking _limping_!" America roared, grabbing the front of France's shirt.

"What _I_ did? Do not place the blame on me! We _all_ did it!" France yelled back, then paled and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"We _all_ did it, aru?" China asked quietly from behind them, and France could tell that the cogs were working in his old, wise mind. Perhaps he knew something more about magic, because his eyes widened suddenly and his brow furrowed. "It relates to last night, doesn't it?"

"I don't know," France said in a whisper, but by now all the nations were silently listening in and could hear him perfectly. "I-I woke up and he wasn't there, his magic had taken him somewhere, and when he came back he was bleeding and injured everywhere. He refused to be touched."

"What were the words he said?" The question came from Norway, who was standing stock still and breathing heavily.

"Id quod volunt, something. I cannot recall exactly."

The Italian twins gaped and started talking in agitated whispers to their neighbours.

"Magic... What did you dream about, aru?" China's voice and eyes were hard.

France closed his eyes. "What I usually do," he said. His suspicions were as good as confirmed.

Perhaps he could have taken it as an insult, he supposed, that all the nations gasped and started talking amongst themselves, some turning red and some looking down with shame.

"What is it? I don't get it," America said, looking around in confusion, his hand still loosely fisted in France's shirt.

"What we dreamt about last night must have happened, Alfred-san," Japan said impassively, though his body language betrayed his shock and guilt. His hands trembled as he raised them to his lips, self-disgust coursing through him. "If not in reality for us, then in reality for him."

France did not miss the way America turned white, eyes wide and shining with realisation and guilt, and he wondered what the boy had dreamt about.

"But... but he was alright with it," Liechtenstein spoke quickly, and all eyes turned to her in surprise. "He was-"

"If we wanted him to want it, then it would have happened," France said quietly, and she choked back a sob.

"So," Alfred said slowly, wringing his hands. The colour had not yet returned to his face. "What do we do now?"

No one could answer him.


	2. Chapter 2

Here we go, a terribly short update. This consists parts 3-4 on the kink meme- please don't give up on me yet! Part 5 is in progress. :D

* * *

"I had a dream about you last night," Prussia said conversationally, albeit hesitantly, as he bandaged up England's back.

_I know_, he wanted to say, but the words felt dry in his mouth and he felt the shame and horror press insistently on his stomach, so he didn't. He was silent as Gilbert patched him up, shuddering at every touch but grateful that Prussia didn't bring up the cause of his injuries.

"It was fucking weird," Prussia complained. "You were in a dress, and we were freaking _married_. I mean, I get that you love my awesome- hell, everyone does, but I don't wanna be tied down to anyone, ever."

He laughed and England could sense the lie in it, but it was okay. He was keeping secrets too.

Prussia stood up and grabbed England's arm. "Alright, up you go. You look tired, so you can have my bed for today."

England shrugged his hand off roughly, and tottered his way to Gilbert's bed. He lowered himself gently, because he refused to collapse, and tugged the sheets (blue, with printed yellow chicks- endearing but silly) to his neck, Prussia watching him like a hawk.

He closed his eyes and waited for the nightmares to come.

* * *

Three weeks later, England was at his house again. He was still healing, but he tended his garden every day, despite the pain in his body. He refused to be bedridden, and he went about his business in the house as he usually did, albeit at a slower pace.

_If the United Kingdom wants to garden,_ he thought viciously. _He is going to garden, damn it._

He had unplugged his telephone, only leaving his mobile on in case of a national emergency; he had told his boss he was on holiday and was not to be disturbed for anything less than a terrorist attack. Of course, that left him open to calls and messages from the other nations, particularly the frog and the idiot, but he ignored and deleted them all except for Prussia's. Prussia was always welcome, if he came with beer.

_Speaking of that... _A loud rapping was heard against the door, and England hobbled over to answer it. His limp was getting much better, if he said so himself, and his numerous wounds had scabbed nicely. Only the bags under his eyes and his pale, drawn face indicated there was anything further bothering him.

"Good afternoon, Gilbert," he said cordially as he opened the door.

"Twelve beers, just for us!" Prussia roared as he breezed in from the doorway as if he owned the place. He was carrying two six packs and a Marks & Spencer tote bag. "But you only get two because you're a damn lightweight."

"What the-? We'll see about that," England muttered, pulling up two chairs at his dining table. "What've you got in that bag?"

Prussia snorted. "Wurst. Nicked it off West this morning, figured you might want something other than nuclear waste to eat."

"Fuck you," he said good-naturedly, taking the package that Prussia handed him and placing it in his refrigerator.

Two beers later he was feeling quite tipsy, roaring with laughter as Prussia chugged his fifth beer, and feeling better than he had ever felt since three days ago when Gilbert had brought more alcohol over.

His mobile rang loudly and he picked it up, not looking at the caller ID.

"Bugger off," he greeted in a pleasant tone. "I'm busy getting drunk off my arse."

"Arthur," a familiar voice said, and England felt his stomach drop away.

"What do you want, Francis?" he growled, for some reason unwilling to put down the phone just yet.

"_Mon Dieu_, have you any idea how worried I was to find you skipped an important meeting, and came back to find my guest _gone_? I thought you killed yourself!"

"That's impossible, you dimwit, and I hope you made up a satisfactory excuse, though with the brain power you just showed I doubt-"

"I told them."

England froze, eyes widened, fear bubbling in his heart. Prussia set down his beer can and stilled.

"What do you mean? There is nothing to tell," he hissed.

A sigh was heard from the other end. "I told them everything. Our dare, the dream, the injuries. They put the pieces together." There was a pause, in which they could only hear England's heavy breathing. "I am sorry," France said, something sad and deep in his tone that said he wasn't only apologising for having told. "I'm so sorry."

"Fuck you," was all England could say. "Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you_-!"

"Arthur!" Prussia shouted, ripping the mobile away and ending the call. England collapsed back into his chair, visibly shaking, and Prussia hesitantly wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

"They know, they know, they know..."

"What was that about?"

England opened his mouth, but the words choked him, and he felt the familiar stirrings of fear and deep revulsion in his gut. "Just give me a minute," he gasped out.

"You don't have to tell me, man." Prussia's hand rubbed soothing circles on England's back, and Arthur wanted so badly to pull away, but he didn't.

"No, no, I should tell you. They already know. Fucking frog," England cursed, then buried his head reluctantly into Prussia's shoulder. He couldn't bear to make eye contact. "You deserve to know."

And England told him, wrapped in his arms at his dining table, as for the first time in years, he allowed himself to cry.

* * *

"He's with Gilbert," France said as he slowly put the phone down. "I heard his voice at the end."

"Gilbert?" America raised his head from studying the patterns on France's curtains. "What was he doing there?"

"I do not know," France said, expression pensive. "I just heard him shout Arthur's name and then the line was cut."

"Damn it!" America swore, standing up and shrugging on his bomber jacket. "Who knows what he could be doing t-"

"Alfred," France said sharply. "Do not be so hasty. I have known Gilbert for a long time-"

"What did he dream about, then? Maybe he-"

"And _despite his denial_," France raised his voice to a near shout. "He has always been _irrevocably_ in love with Elizaveta. I have no doubt that in his dream, Arthur was a mere replacement."

It took a moment, but eventually America unclenched his hands and slumped back into his seat. "I feel like a monster," he admitted softly, burying his head in his arms.

France sighed. "We all do, I believe. But smothering him isn't going to help him at all. He needs to get back to normal, and protecting him will not be healthy in the long run."

"Maybe that's why he hates you," America said without thinking, realising he had hit a nerve when France suddenly stiffened. But at this point he couldn't care.

"I think I would know what he needs the most, as we have known each other for almost all our lives-"

"Sure explains why your deepest fantasy was of him being _willing_ for once!" All of the anger, helplessness, and guilt that had been bottled up was pouring uncontrollably from America, directed at France with unforgiving harshness.

"Well I wasn't the one who was _fucking him with a gun_!"

America stood up, banging his fist against the table. "Well if you aren't gonna do anything, _I am_," he hissed, marching to the front door and slamming it behind him.

He had no idea where to start or how to do it, but he was brimming with determination. He just hoped he was enough of a hero to save Arthur.

* * *

Romano crossed himself as he knelt down in one of the back pews of the church, moving his lips in a prayer that would be almost soundless if not for the slight whisper of air that escaped him. He clutched an elaborate rosary in his hand- Murano glass, with carved roses, too beautiful for anyone to deserve holding.

_"...save us from the fires of Hell, and lead all souls into Heaven, especially those most in need of Your mercy."_

The whispered prayer bounced against the walls of the empty church, making him feel even more alone. He kept his head bowed, unwilling to look at the confessional beside him.

Someone seated themselves next to him, and even without looking, Romano knew who it was. And he knew he would not be interrupted while praying, however much a talk was needed. So he prayed the complete fifteen decades instead of five, and the Loreto litanies when he heard his neighbour shift in impatience.

_"Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us."_

Soon he could not avoid it any longer, and sighed, crossed himself, and sat down with aching knees.

"What do you want, Antonio?"

It took a while for the Spaniard to answer, and Romano had just about given up when he spoke suddenly. "Your churches are very beautiful, little Lovino."

"_That's_ what you wanted to talk about?" Romano hissed, almost swearing but remembering he was in a holy place and catching himself in time. He was mildly relieved Spain had not brought up more sensitive topics, but curiously disappointed.

"It's a nice topic," Spain replied blandly. "I like it."

They sat in silence for a few moments, looking up at the altar with pensive expressions. Romano tried to clear his head, to be as dreamy as glassy-eyed Spain looked, but his gaze kept drifting to the confessional, hands subconsciously rubbing at imaginary rope burns.

It was Spain who broke the quiet again, but it was wordless, just a shifting of position and the creak of old wood. Romano couldn't stand it anymore.

"I am a sinner," he whispered under his breath, not knowing whether he wanted to be heard or not.

Spain cocked his head. "How so?"

"I can't pray properly, I can't sleep without wondering what I'm going to dream about, I can't _think_ without remembering Arthur and what I did to him, what I made him do-" he choked a little, then fell quiet for a minute. "I- I can't even bring myself to go to confession."

Spain made a soft, indistinct sound. "I used to live through my friars," he said, leaning back. "They'd send me letters from the colonies, telling me stories and news and how they were running the government. Sometimes I'd think I was a friar myself!" He gave a little laugh, and Romano stared at him, recognising the invitation but unwilling to believe it. "My little Lovino, surely you can talk to me?"

The proverbial gauntlet had been thrown, and Romano found himself tempted by the challenge, tempted to give in and tell. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. "My sins are for God only to judge," he said harshly.

Spain's smile slipped a little. "Then," he heaved a great sigh. "I'll leave you to judge mine."

"No, you idiot-" But Romano had already perked up a little, listening intently from morbid curiosity, even as he thought it wasn't right to divulge this story.

"You remember the days when I was a conqueror of nations- a _conquistador_, yes?" Spain began, tone light and airy. "Ah, those were fine days. It's much more peaceful now, but sometimes I miss the excitement. I took care of so many cute little colonies, helped them grow the proper way, _held so much power..._ Of all that, I miss the power I had over them. But not you, Lovino, I like us as we are now."

Romano shoved his hand away, willing the redness in his cheeks to subside.

"But I had many enemies," Spain continued. "Arthur and Catalina, they were allies for a long time, both were my enemies. I used to dream often that I would fight against them and win, that their power would be mine for the taking."

"So what you really dreamt..."

"Holding Arthur at swordpoint and forcing him to give me _everything_." Spain's eyes were bright with something that Romano distantly recalled, something that sent shivers down his spine but broke his heart with pity.

A sound made them turn their heads, and they saw a priest cast a glance at them, entering the confessional and waiting. Romano paled and stood, backing away, shoving his rosary into Spain's hands.

"I-I need to leave. There's something I forgot to do. Use that, and you'd _better_ give it back to me tomorrow, or else."

Spain simply nodded, and Romano all but ran to the door of the church, his heart beating rapidly with fear and self-loathing. But he turned his head, and could vaguely hear a voice, broken and starved for mercy.

_"Padre Nuestro, que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre..."_

Despite the pounding in his heart and the tremble in his fingers, Romano smiled. There was still hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Yet another update from me, this time part 5 from the kink meme, which is why it's considerably shorter than the others. Please review, and please tell me how you like it and how I can improve further. :D Thank you so much!

* * *

England was in his sitting room, waiting for Prussia to return. Prussia had gone out to purchase supplies for a long-term stay, after England had broken down and sobbed in front of him. He had been comforted, patted on the head and embraced like a child, and England found solace in the awkward but sincere caring. He was quiet now, silently embroidering the Prussian eagle on a white scarf he had knitted himself- a thank you gift he intended to give that night.

He was at a loss as to what to do. No one had ever been so insistent on helping him, and he wasn't quite sure how much he could trust Prussia. After all, France, whom he had always been closest to, had always kept his distance.

A knock was heard at the door, and England smiled, put down his scarf, and answered.

* * *

America waited nervously at the door, hands wringing each other in front of him. The scent wafting up to his nose calmed him somewhat- roses and herbs, and freshly-cut grass, and the earthy scent of soft loam from the garden. It was so domestic, so utterly_ England_ that he could almost forget that Arthur was not quite Arthur anymore, and hadn't been for several weeks.

The door opened, and England himself looked up, smiling slightly, as if he wasn't quite sure of something. "Hello, Gilbert, I was just-"

But he froze, and America froze too, looking over England breathlessly. He had fading bruises, pink, tight scars, and bags under his eyes (nightmares, America thought, and he cringed inside of himself) to match with his now gaunt figure. America searched for the England he knew- a threatening scowl, a blush, a burst of fire in forest green eyes, an ancient but strong _something_ in his very presence that made England what he was.

America found nothing.

He took a step forward, forcing England to back into the living area. There was something in his body language that America didn't like. Was it the posture? The once proud head drooping like a willow? Or was it the way his eyes nervously darted from area to area, refusing to gaze directly at him?

_My God,_ America thought. _What have we done?_

"-out," England told him, and it took America a moment to realise he was being spoken to. "Get out, right now."

"No," he replied simply, and the weight of the word hung heavily around them. "I won't."

He moved forward, fast as lightning, and swept England into a warm embrace. He still smelled of brown sugar and sage, America realised with a smile. That hadn't changed.

"I'll protect you," he whispered into his hair, hand rubbing his back soothingly. "I'll protect you."

* * *

England was terrified.

America's arms were around him, holding him gently, but England felt he was wrapped in a vise. His head was whirling and his heart ached so much he could hardly stand it. He had loved America for so long, had never once stopped loving him, from sunny smiles and tiny hands to the free man he had grown to become. And oh, how he longed to wrap his arms around America and receive the comfort and solidity he had yearned for for centuries, but all he could think about was the cold, unforgiving metal forcing his body to yield, the crippling fear because _America still had his finger on the trigger_, and the devilish smile on the face of the young man he had trusted despite everything.

_It figures,_ he thought, inwardly screaming with either relief or fear. _The one time he gives comfort is the time I can't stand to be near him._

He was frozen in place, taking short, gasping breaths- if America couldn't feel his chest moving, maybe he would go away. Was that a gun he had? England thought wildly. _No, it's his mobile phone, oh God, I'm such a wreck-_

"Get the _fuck_ away from him!"

_Prussia_, England thought faintly, as he sank onto trembling knees. _Thank God._

There was a low voice whispering into his ear, and England turned his head to find Germany's calm blue eyes in front of him. _Ludwig is here. Ludwig is safe, relatively safe..._

Prussia and America were locked in what was slowly turning into an all-out brawl on England's floor, with Prussia striking out furiously and America not holding back any of his strength. They were frighteningly close to smashing England's coffee table, and the needles he had been using still protruded dangerously from the white scarf. England tried to call out, to stop them from tearing each other into pieces and ruining his house, but his throat closed around the words.

_"Halt!"_

Germany's commanding voice rang through the room. The two stopped, raising their heads from where they were sprawled on the floor, Prussia's fist just an inch away from America's nose.

America seemed to catch notice of England's trembling form and got up quickly, moving toward him, but Prussia held him back with a firm hand.

England stood shakily, slowing his breathing and forcing himself to calm down. He glared at America, fingers forming fists by his sides.

"Alfred," he said stonily. "If you know what's good for you, you'll leave right now."

"I want to help you," America replied, in his eyes a naivete and a fierce protectiveness that made England inwardly cringe but at the same time feel comforted.

"So do I," Germany said as well. "Gilbert called me over. He said you might need others to talk to." He didn't quite look like he knew what he was doing, but he gave a small, uncertain, but sincere smile.

Prussia walked over to England and ruffled his hair, earning himself a dark scowl. "You've gotta open up sometime, Arthur," he said gently, but England knew there was no crossing him. "And hey, look, you've got the awesome us!"

England glanced at them each in turn: Germany, with his awkward but earnest desire to help; Prussia, whose eyes and stance burned with determination; and finally America- America, who still frightened England with his very presence, America, who only wanted to protect him.

Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded. "Alright. I've got you."

* * *

Belarus met them in a field of sunflowers.

Russia and Ukraine were sitting side by side, talking quietly and casting smiles at the flowers around them. Belarus' heart jumped to her throat as she caught sight of Russia's face, and she crept closer to them, her face falling as she noticed her brother move away.

He was stilled by a hand on his arm. "Vanya," Ukraine pleaded. "Stay, please. We never have time as a family anymore."

Russia sat back down, glancing warily at Belarus, but when she raised her hands in a gesture of peace he smiled hesitantly. She felt hollower inside- what would it take for him to love her again?

She greeted him stiffly and sat down on his other side, longing to reach out but knowing she could not. She trained her gaze instead on the sunflowers dancing in the wind, wondering how her brother could find them so beautiful. _He can do much better._

"I had a dream about sunflowers," Russia said, in that childish voice she had grown up loving.

"Silly Vanya, you always do." Ukraine smiled at him, and sighed. "I just wish you weren't always alone to see them."

"We're together now," Belarus cut in quickly.

Russia smiled brightly. "Oh, but I wasn't alone. I had Arthur with me!"

Belarus froze, and from the corner of her eye she saw Ukraine do the same.

"Poor Arthur," her sister said sadly.

"It was his own fault." It was cold, Belarus knew, but it was true. He had brought his own misfortune upon himself.

Russia looked confusedly between the both of them. "What happened to Arthur? I know the other nations were also talking about him at the last meeting."

"Oh Vanya... he was hurt, terribly hurt the night before. Everyone dreamt of him as well-"

"Their dreams were not so kind to him as yours, dear brother." Belarus felt the stirrings of pity in her, and she quickly squashed them down. Her heart was for her family only.

Russia was silent, but Belarus could see the conflict in his eyes- shock, confusion, pity, and a hint of the cold steel that once held the world at his feet. Belarus wondered if he could make it happen again.

Then the tension seemed to melt from him, and he closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun like the flowers he so adored. "I think," he said, slowly and carefully. "I shall pay a visit to England tomorrow."

Belarus had her answer.


	4. Chapter 4

OH GOSH YOU GUYS I am so sorry this took so long. I was away from the country for two weeks (I was in Iggy, actually) and it was a terribly busy time for me. Most of this was written on the 13 hour flight. Both ways. Gar. I'm so happy some of you are still sticking with me through this, really! And please don't expect updates very soon- the next one to be updated will be Winner Takes All. :) I'll alternate between the two, but I am still writing From the Lair of the Dragon. :D

This chapter is dedicated to **dogstardreams **because, due to her awesomeness, I have finally decided on a pairing! XD That... unfortunately, hasn't come out in this chapter yet, ahaha. :D

Anyway if there are any mistakes please alert me to them seeing as it's 4:24 AM here and I'm (finally) getting sleepy. Jetlag sucks but it does wonders for fic writing time.

* * *

It seemed that Prussia and America were destined to never get along.

England sighed as he watched them bicker yet again (he had stopped counting after the third day), and he wondered what they were arguing about this time- usually it ranged from petty arguments about who was more awesome to dangerous topics such as the last world war. He rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly, and from the corner of his eye, saw Germany do the same. He smiled- at least he wasn't alone in this.

"I'm telling you, you dipshit, he's not ready for that!"

America bristled at the insult, and raised his voice again. "He's stronger than you think!"

Prussia scoffed. "Strength or no strength, that guy isn't gonna like what you're saying. I'm telling you, it's a bad idea."

"We've got to take necessary measures-"

"Enough of that, you two!" England glared at them, and they withered. He smiled inwardly- he still had it in him, it seemed. "Would you _kindly_ tell me what is going on? And don't you dare tell me it's none of my business. I'm not stupid, unlike... some."

America scratched the back of his head nervously. "Well, you see, Arthur, it started like-"

"Alfred," England said sharply, remembering the tone of voice that had always worked on America as a child. He wasn't disappointed.

"Alright, alright!" America yelped, looking away from England. "Geez, don't do that, I'm not a kid anymore! Anyway, I was thinking you could open up to us about everything that happened... that night, but this moron over here thinks you can't handle it."

England stiffened, his eyes wide at the idea of spilling everything to these men he could still barely bring himself to trust. Something in him shrank from the suggestion, withered and curled and sank heavily in the pit of his stomach at the thought of his privacy being invaded so thoroughly. "No," he said shakily, ridding himself of the irrational fear that had crawled up his skin. "I won't do it."

Prussia nodded, a smug smile half-forming on his lips before he forced his expression straight. "Alright, then, you don't have to."

"But Arthur," America began pleadingly, grabbing hold of England's sleeve and refusing to let go even as the other struggled to shove him off. "You've gotta-"

"I don't have to do _anything_!" England hissed. "You can't make me!You have no idea what it's like to be so damn _weak_ that you can't look anyone in the eye without remembering that you whored yourself out to them! You have no _fucking_ idea how it feels to realise every day that you're Arthur Kirkland, the biggest _prostitute_ the world has ever seen-"

"Arthur!"

"Raped by my own _fucking mistake_-"

"Shut up!" America grabbed him by the shoulders, tightly enough to bruise, ignoring the sharp gasp of pain he let out. "Do you think you were the only one who was raped? How do you think _we_ feel, since you know our deepest secrets, huh? Every day I can think, "shit, I fucked my father" and then I want to comfort you so badly but whenever I look at you I remember that I helped make you this way!"

"Alfred, stop..."

"Not until you've heard what I have to say! I know most of the time you think I'm stupid, but I'm not blind. You're ruining yourself, Arthur, and you're taking everyone else down with you!"

"Alfred, let go! You're hurting me!"

America's eyes widened and he released him as if he had been burned, leaving England to wince from the tender spots left behind by the crushing grip. His gaze seemed to bore straight through England, and he realised, perhaps too late, what it was that made America such a superpower.

"It's the first time you've said that to anyone in a long time, I think," America said slowly, as if finally understanding something for the first time. "You've always been one to bottle it up inside, no matter how much you're hurt."

_Why do you know this?_ England wanted to scream. _You never cared before_. But he was tired of talking back, tired of fighting, so he simply nodded.

"I've known you almost all my life, and you've always been that way." England could tell America was struggling, his normally ebullient nature put down by the weight of his words. "Look, I haven't been the best ally you've ever had, and I guess you've been waiting for me to see this since forever. But nothing can change the fact that most of who I am is because of you. Seeing you like this... it's- it's not right." America's voice cracked a little, and England wanted nothing more than to pat him on the shoulder and tell him he was doing well, that there was nothing to worry about, but he held himself back, his skin still crawling at the thought of touching him.

"Alfred-"

"No. Let me talk. Arthur, I want to help you. We all do. You've gotta realise that none of this is our fault either, so just... _talk_ to us, alright?"

"Hate to butt in," Prussia said suddenly, making England look away from the uncomfortable blue stare. "But I gotta tell you, he's right on that point. It's not just you who's been affected. I still don't think you should go blabbing on about your experiences and shit to us, 'cause that just ain't fair."

"But that's the only way!" America objected.

"No it ain't."

"It so is."

Prussia huffed. "You're a close-minded idiot."

"Yeah, well you're- you're an albino freak!"

Prussia rolled his eyes. "Oh, _touche_," he said sarcastically, flashing a grin at England. "See what I have to put up with because of you? You ain't the only one suffering."

"Truly, you are not," Germany muttered under his breath, but England heard and cracked a smile. "Both ideas have some merit, I must say," Germany admitted. "What I suggest is that instead of telling us all about your experience, you speak with _all_ of us- yes, including the others- individually, regarding the... specific encounters." Here there was a hint of a blush on the bridge of Germany's nose, and England found himself flushing at the memory as well.

"I-individually, you say?" he stammered, glancing between the three men in his sitting room. He opened his mouth to reject the suggestion, to say that he would have no part in it and that he would not be forced, but he caught sight of the looks on their faces- Germany, embarrassed but firm; Prussia, smirking but worried; and America, earnest and determined. He found the words dying in his throat, and he nodded slowly, reluctantly. _This is all out of my hands now._

"Excellent. I am glad you all agree. gilbert, I believe we have some business to attend to at home?"

Prussia stared incredulously at Germany. "What the fuck? I'm not even a nation anymore and you're dumping work-"

Germany gave a long-suffering sigh. "You mentioned a telephone call that you needed to place, and I must be getting back to Feliciano. Only God knows what he's done to my house by now."

"Oh yeah, right." Prussia clapped a hand on England's shoulder, looking at him with a grin. "Got some really important stuff to do. Duty calls, but I'll be back. Take care of yourself, Arthur." He swooped down to place his mouth by England's ear, saying hurriedly under his breath, "Just to clear things up, I'm really sorry about that time, but I wasn't thinking of you, really, it was, uh-"

"I understand," England replied softly, then he smiled. "I know who you were really dreaming of anyway."

"You do?" Prussia coughed and straighened up. "I mean, of course you do. Anyway, we'll be back!"

"I suggest you make the most of your time by beginning with Alfred here. If that turns out to be a disaster, then we may cancel this plan and formulate a new one." Germany's severe tone was offset by his small smile that England returned hesitantly. "We shall be taking our leave. Goodbye, Arthur. Alfred."

England took a hurried step forward to open the door for them, but winced as a recently-healed scar in his thigh twinged at the sudden motion. "I apologise, let me catch my breath for a minute-"

"No need," Germany replied, nodding gravely. "We will show ourselves out. Again, goodbye."

The door shut behind them as they left, and England threw a nervous glance at America. Suddenly the room seemed much too large and open, with too many hiding places, too many shadows an eavesdropper could hide in. The paranoia was stupid, he knew, but his stomach churned at the thought of all the possibilities. Someone could be hiding, America could sneak behind him, _oh God what if he was lying earlier, what if he has another gun-?_

"Hey, Artie, chill! You're hyperventilating." America said worriedly, reaching a hand out. England jerked away.

"I'm fine," he hissed. "Let's just- are we doing this or not?"

America nodded brightly. "Definitely! So, uh... Uh, do you want to move somewhere else? Or is this alright? I don't want to make this too awkward or anything..."

"I would prefer it," England said slowly, unwilling to look America in the face. "If we took this, er, upstairs." He saw from the corner of his eye the grin that America tried to suppress and found himself grateful that, for once, the boy didn't run his mouth and try to make some disgusting joke. He didn't think he could have handled it.

"Alright, then. Whatever's more comfortable for you." America held out an arm uncertainly. "Um, upstairs then?"

England nodded, taking the arm reluctantly for support as they climbed the staircase. His eyes snaked down to the hand loosely clenching and unclenching nervously in the air. _This hand, this same hand that used me_. But he couldn't think of that, not now. Not when America was supporting him and helping him like he had never done before.

He sighed, shook his head, and forced himself to think about how nice it was to finally lean on someone for a change.

* * *

"So Mister Ivan is out?"

Belarus glared at him stonily, and Lithuania inwardly cringed, but stayed firm. God, she was so beautiful- cold as ice and just as forbidding, mysterious and elegant and strong. Lithuania felt so small around her, so vulnerable, even if they were standing metres apart.

"He is on his way to England as we speak." The words were harsh and clipped, as if she had no time to waste on him.

Lithuania hung his head for a moment, then he turned to look at her again, inching forward a little. "I think it would be good for Arthur, to see him," he said quietly. "I've heard he hasn't come out of his home for a long time."

Belarus cast him a sidelong glance. "You do not think my brother will hurt him?"

Lithuania was surprised at the question, but answered honestly. "No." Another inch forward.

Belarus stepped back, fingers twitching as she reached for the knife that Lithuania knew was hidden in her belt. "Why is that?" she challenged. "Do you not think he is strong enough? Do you not think he is powerful enough to take what he wants? The UK government is weak now, and without the guidance of Arthur, even weaker. Are you saying my brother could not take advantage of that?"

Lithuania looked down at his feet, sure that he would feel a dagger through his skin at any moment. When nothing happened, he raised his eyes once more. "I, er... No." He spoke more firmly now, rapidly, as if a weight off his chest was being lifted, centimetre by centimetre. "No. I don't think him weak. God only knows how much I know how powerful he is. Mister Ivan may be a cruel man sometimes, but... he has a heart."

Belarus openly stared at him, surprised by his words, and for once, finding herself at a loss. She tucked the dagger back into her belt slowly, taking a step forward. "Do you truly believe that? He does not love as others do."

"No. He's different." Lithuania took another step toward her, more confident this time. "Maybe the problem is that he loves too much, gives so much of himself, and the others just don't understand his ways."

The distance between them was shrinking as Belarus crept closer, cold violet eyes piercing into him, judging him mercilessly. "He does not love." There was a hint of barely-hidden despair in the harsh tone, and Lithuania wanted to comfort her, to smooth back her beautiful silver hair and tell her it was alright, but she was untouchable, unreachable.

"He does. But he isn't understood, so he's hated. Believe me, I know the feeling." Lithuania smiled wryly. He didn't know if Belarus would catch the veiled meaning. Perhaps not. He hoped she wouldn't. "I used to think he was just some evil psychopath. Now... I'm still terrified, but I know he's just like everyone else inside. Though if he ever decides to fight back, there would be no question who would win."

Belarus studied him intently, and Lithuania felt himself growing nervous under her scrutiny. "Perhaps I have misjudged you, Toris. You are not the whimpering fool I thought."

He nodded, and they each took a silent step forward.

"I'm worried for Arthur," Lithuania said suddenly, breaking the quiet. Violet eyes turned on him again, and he shivered, but continued. "I mean... I wonder how he's doing."

"It was his fault," was the toneless reply.

"Yes, that's true. But he can't be blamed for it either." Lithuania averted his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "I hurt him badly in my dream."

"Very badly?"

"Very," Lithuania said, biting his lip. "I- I hit him. A lot. I- I don't know why, I guess maybe I just wanted to transfer some of what I went through to someone, anyone." He knew it was a terrible idea to confess this to Belarus, of all people, Belarus, who would ignore his feelings and mock him wordlessly in her coldness and distance, but he couldn't help it. The guilt that had been gnawing at him for so long was gushing out, and it needed to find a release. "I'm not a sadist, honestly, I'm not, but-!"

"Hush." Belarus gazed at him, not gently, but almost pityingly. "I too know the need for the sight of blood and pain. There is no pleasure, only necessity. It is not pretty but... It is our way."

_Our way_... Poland had always hated violence. America said it was necessary, but there was too much pride, too much arrogance in his ways that Lithuania didn't believe him. But here, with Belarus here, only three or four steps away, he felt, perhaps for the first time, completely understood.

She crossed the remaining distance and stood close to him, not looking at him but casting her eyes instead on the wall. "I dreamt of love," she said softly. "A sin, I know, for my heart rests only with my family. But just once... I thought perhaps I could indulge myself just that once."

In a moment of instinct, madness perhaps, Lithuania brushed his fingers against hers, entwining her cool, slender hand in his. Her grip tightened almost unbearably, and he closed his eyes and waited for the burning pain, for the crunch of bones, but nothing came. She loosened her grip again, and he could almost pretend they were two friends, holding hands in a time of crisis. His heart soared at the realisation that their skin was touching, that he was this close to her and not yet dead, that she had allowed him to be so near.

_I dreamt of love._ He took a look at her eyes, vacant and forbidding as she was lost in her own unreadable thoughts, and knew she was just as untouchable as before.


End file.
